Page 14 of Where There's Smoke

Jesse drew in a long breath. Without looking at his uncle or me, instead fixing his gaze on the coffee table, he said, “The biggest thing they can dig up on her is her eating disorder. The media’s made some assumptions about it that aren’t true, but the disorder is very real.”

“Assumptions?” I picked up my iced tea. “Such as?”

“That it’s for her career, mostly. Because she has to stay thin to succeed in her line of work.”

Furrowing my brow, I took a drink and set the glass back on its coaster. “So…that isn’t true?”

“No,” Jesse said, a note of irritation in his voice. “She’s had problems with it since she was a kid. It’s…it’s how she copes with things.”

“Things like…?”

“Stress.” The word came out with just enough emphasis to let me know that was as much as I was getting out of him about it.

I swallowed. “It might be best to let the media continue with their existing assumptions, then. That it’s an issue with maintaining her weight for her career. It’ll look better than—”

“No fucking way!” Jesse’s sudden anger startled me. “We arenotspinning my wife’s condition for the sake of my campaign.”

“I’m not suggesting we do,” I snapped. “I’m suggesting we let the media continue with their assumptions rather than give the sons of bitches a reason to dig for signs of mental instability, sensationalism, what have you.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “You want to protect her? Let their assumptions be the smoke screen that keeps them from the truth.”

At that, he relaxed. A little. “All right. We can do that.”

“Good,” I said. “Is she actively having issues with her eating disorder right now?”

Jesse’s eyes lost focus. He took a breath, and I couldn’t decide how to read his expression until, with a note of deep, palpable sadness, he said, “Yes. She is.”

“She is?” Roger’s head snapped toward Jesse. “Since when?”

“I’m not sure.” Jesse glanced at him, then at me. “She doesn’t know I know, though. I’m only telling you for the sake of…I mean…” He gestured sharply at all the papers in front of me as if they represented all our campaign efforts. “Beyond you knowing for the sake of the campaign and doing damage control if needed, that doesnotleave this room.”

There were campaign managers out there who’d exploit this little piece of information to make the candidate look good. After all, in a field like politicswhere adultery was so ridiculously commonplace, nothing would make a candidate shine like standing by his wife while she struggled with something like this. A devoted husband like him was the unicorn of the political world: pretty much a mythical creature.

But I couldn’t ask Jesse to do that. And from the fierce determination in his eyes, I suspected he’d show me the door if I even suggested it.

Since our conversation last night, I’d begun to respect Jesse. Now I caught myself admiring him.

“None of it leaves this room,” I said. “Now why don’t we discuss content for the ad campaign?”

Roger stood, picking up his mostly empty glass. “Well, I’ll leave the two of you to figure out all of that nonsense.”

I smiled. Exactly what I’d hoped for. Roger hated discussions of advertising, and just as I knew he would, he shook hands with Jesse and me, then left the living room.

I turned to Jesse. “You mind if we step outside? I could use a cigarette.”

“Sure, yeah.”

He rose, and we walked in silence out to the veranda overlooking the ocean. As I pulled my cigarettes and lighter out of my pocket, I swore my mind superimposed Roger and me sitting at that wrought-iron table a few days ago as he broke the news that Jesse was running. Standing out here now, with Jesse an arm’s length away while I went through the motions of getting the nicotine I craved, my stomach was even more knotted than it had been the first night I’d spoken to Roger.

I pocketed my lighter and pulled in a long drag. Closing my eyes, I just savored it for a moment, letting the nicotine make its way toward my bloodstream. As I blew out the smoke, I opened my eyes and kept my gaze fixed on the ocean far below us.

After another drag, I said, “What aren’t you telling me, Jesse?”

He stiffened. “What?”

“I’m not kidding. The more I know, the—”

“The more damage control you can do.” He made a flippant gesture. “I get it.”

“And all through our conversation in there”—I used my cigarette to indicate the doors leading to the living room—“your body language screamed that there was something you weren’t telling me.”

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